The warehouse was supposed to be empty.

That’s what the intel said. Quick in, quick out. Arrest the buyer, secure the goods, go home.

But nothing ever went that clean.

Mark heard the click before he felt the cold steel press against the back of his neck.

“Drop it,” a voice growled behind him. “Nice and slow.”

His gun clattered to the floor.

Hands raised, he kept his voice even. “You shoot me, the whole place lights up with backup. Think that’s worth the trigger pull?”

Silence.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. Didn’t even breathe too deep. But inside? His mind ran to one place — you.

He hadn’t texted that morning. Didn’t want to wake you.

He hadn’t kissed you before he left — just a half-smile and a quiet “I’ll be back.”

He swore under his breath. Not like this. Not today.

Then, a shot rang out.

Not at him.

The man behind him dropped — clean hit to the shoulder — as Mark’s backup finally stormed in. Chaos erupted, boots and shouts, guns drawn, everything moving too fast.

Mark stood still in the middle of it all, heart pounding.

He should’ve been dead.

Hours later, when he finally got home, you were curled up on the couch, waiting. The second he stepped in, you looked up — tired, soft-eyed, completely unaware how close the day had come to tearing everything apart.

He didn’t say a word.

Just walked straight to you, knelt down, and wrapped his arms around your waist, holding on like he was anchoring himself.

“What happened?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just buried his face into your shirt and muttered, voice shaking, “I thought I wouldn’t get another chance to come home.”

And neither of you let go for a long, long time.